


a hint of sweetness carried on the waves

by elmshore



Series: 28 Dates with Unit Bravo [1]
Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Established Relationship, Fluff, Light Angst, Multi, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:28:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29166468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elmshore/pseuds/elmshore
Summary: Bellamy Santos has their hands full, trying to solve supernatural cases in the sleepy town of Wayhaven but luckily for them, they have some friends to help lighten the load.This is a series of snapshots taking place within an alternative universe setting, based around a series of Valentine's prompts. Will feature multiple pairings.
Relationships: Detective/Mason (The Wayhaven Chronicles), Detective/Natalie "Nat" Sewell, Female Detective/Farah Hauville, Female Detective/Mason (The Wayhaven Chronicles), Male Detective/Adam du Mortain
Series: 28 Dates with Unit Bravo [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2141121
Comments: 8
Kudos: 12





	1. of chocolates and interruptions

**Author's Note:**

> Nat wants to share a sweet treat with Bellamy, but the moment is ruined at the last minute.

It’s a quarter past four when Bellamy enters the bookshop. The bell above the door chimes as they step inside and immediately, warmth envelops them, a welcome reprieve from the chill lingering in the air outside.

Sunlight streams in through stained glass windows. Paints the floor and shelves in a dazzling array of colors, each blending into the next. Music fills the space— light, a mix of piano and cello, sweet and nostalgic, a memory wrapped in a melody— and Bellamy cannot quite fight the smile that twitches at the corner of their mouth, cannot stop the swell of relief that sweeps through them.

How funny that in such a short amount of time, this place has become a refuge of sorts.

And it’s thanks, they know, to the woman now emerging from a backroom.

She is radiant, but then again, when is she not? Dressed in a simple pair of brown slacks and a dark green blouse, covered partially by a cream-colored apron adorned with peach-hued flowers, there is something gentle about her, an aura of quaint, quiet beauty. Here, in the late afternoon sun, she glows— tawny skin dappled in rich amber, brown hair awash in a sea of shifting rainbow— and for a moment, Bellamy forgets what it is to breathe, lungs stuttering in their chest, useless and constricting.

Then, Nat grins, and it’s all Bellamy can do to quell the sudden flutter of their heart, pitter-pattering away, thudding against their ribs. Stomps it down, hard and fast. Tosses it under the nearest floorboard, covers it with a rug, and refuses to pay it any mind, to even entertain the idea that— 

“Oh, Bellamy! I’m so pleased you made it!” 

Her voice compliments the music playing quietly in the background. Weaves in and out of the notes, creating an entirely new song, one Bellamy thinks they could listen to forever and never grow weary of, never wish to—

 _Stop it_ , their mind hisses and for once, they’re inclined to agree with it. 

Instead, they clear their throat. Loudly and more than once, end up coughing a bit, fist pressed against their mouth. Heat flares into their cheeks, staining them dark and warm, and when they risk a glance up, Nat is watching them with concern, ochre eyes filled with worry. 

“I’m fine, sorry,” Bellamy mutters, the words tumbling out in a flurry and they shake their head, curls bouncing. “Uh, you said it was urgent? Did you find the book we needed on gargoyles?” Their voice cracks embarrassingly at the end, strained from the coughing fit, and they fight the urge to wince.

The concern lingers a moment, then a heartbeat more, before it fades and her smile is back, shining bright enough to rival the setting sun. “Yes, I did, but before that,” and here she pauses, quickly tugging off the apron and folding it over in her hands. She sets it on the counter and then beckons them to follow her, turning on her heel. “I have something else to share with you!”

A hint of playfulness dances in her tone. It sends a crackle of electricity skittering down Bellamy’s spine and they raise a brow, head tilting. “What is it?”

“Come along and I’ll show you!”

With no other choice— at least, none they’re willing to seize upon— Bellamy sighs and heads after her, jogging to catch up on their shorter legs. Nat leads them into the backroom and now the music is louder, coils around them in faint, whimsical tendrils. Out of the corner of their eye, Bellamy spies the ornate record player (a literal relic, and all because Nat refuses to embrace current technology for whatever reason), and chuckles, finally falling into step beside the taller woman.

“Is it something that will help with the case?”

Nat hums, lips quirking at the corners. “Always so impatient, Investigator.”

“I prefer inquisitive,” Bellamy quips in return, hands sliding into their pockets. “Besides, it’s my kinda my job, to ask questions.”

“I suppose that is true, and you are very good at asking the right questions, I must admit.”

Once again that blasted warmth seeps into their cheeks and Bellamy quickly looks down, eyes locked on their scuffed, black boots. They say nothing, words rising in their throat and becoming little more than ash on their tongue and mercifully, Nat doesn’t push. They simply walk together in silence, through a narrow corridor, and into a little room, tucked away in the farthest part of the shop; a break room of sorts, adorned with a plush couch and a little kitchen area.

“Have a seat,” Nat insists, hand gesturing toward the sofa, and then she is off, heading toward the table nestled near a small window.

Still curious, Bellamy is sure to keep their eyes on her as they make their way over toward the couch and plop down, sinking into the plump cushions, feet dangling inches off the floor. They can scarcely see around Nat but then, there is hardly any need to; she turns, and in her hands is a square box, dark red in color and tied with a gold ribbon.

“Chocolates?” And if they sound incredulous, well, it’s hardly their fault.

Nat beams and hurries over, long legs carrying her across the room in only two strides and she takes a seat beside them, the box held gently in her grasp. “Yes! I ordered these and they arrived today, they’re from France and they’re _divine_ ,” she explains and with slender, nimble fingers, she unties the ribbon. Lets it rest in her lap and slowly peels open the lid, setting it down on the cushion next to her. “I thought you might like to try one?”

There is something so very open and hopeful in those brown eyes, inviting, tempting. Bellamy likes chocolate as much as the next person— has a bit of a sweet-tooth, if they’re being honest, practically lives off sugar and caffeine— but the idea of specially ordering them from another country seems a bit… excessive.

Chocolate is chocolate, after all.

Still, there is no denying Nat. Especially when she looks so very eager, smiling and shining. And so, Bellamy merely sighs and nods. “All right,” they indulge, and don’t miss the way she perks at the words, “I’ll bite.”

They reach for the box, but it seems they weren’t the only one with the idea. Nat’s own hand moves at the same time and, as if by some cosmic joke, they go for the same piece. Their fingers brush and immediately, as suddenly as a bolt of lightning in a storm, something white-hot and blazing jolts through them. Bellamy is thrown off-kilter, head snapping up just in time to lock eyes with Nat, and oh.

 _Oh_.

She felt it too.

An emotion Bellamy is too cowardly to name flashes in that molten gaze and for what feels like an eternity, neither move, too absorbed in the sight of one another. Inside their chest, their heart drums frantically, a beast raging against its cage and Bellamy tries to swallow, to force air into their lungs or words past their lips, but none of it works.

Instead, they are enveloped completely in her. The scent of spruce and cinnamon and hints of the sea, of salt and gentle breezes. Strange, how she always smells of the ocean, as if she carries a piece of it within her.

“Anybody home?!”

The voice, familiar in its exuberance, crashes over them like a wave and as quickly as it happened, the spell is broken, and Bellamy acts, driven by impulse. Yanks a random piece of chocolate out of the box and tosses it into their mouth, the rich flavor spilling onto their tongue. Bounces off the couch and to their feet, every nerve in their body jittery, the need to move almost too much to stand.

“Sounds like Farah,” they say, eyes sliding to the door, and dimly, they can make out the sounds of the vampire moving about the front of the shop, her shoes clicking against the hardwood floors.

“Yes, why don’t you go and greet her? I need to put away the chocolates.” Nat sounds… different, smaller, and Bellamy doesn’t want to think about that, to linger on the moment they just shared, whatever it might have been,

So, they nod and flee from the room, from the emotions raging within them.


	2. a coffee date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Farah and Prim share a tender moment, one that not even coffee can taint.

There’s still a lot about the human world that Farah doesn’t understand, even after all her years now spent in this realm. Chief among them, however, is _coffee_. 

For some insane, mind-boggling reason, humans _love_ the disgusting beverage; crave it, in fact, with many proclaiming their love of it loudly and proudly. And listen, she’s tried— no, really, she has!— to figure out _why_ , or _how_ , but every single time she just… comes up blank.

Who in their right mind wants to willingly drink bitter, dirty water?

Her girlfriend, apparently.

Seated opposite her, tucked away into the cozy booth, Primrose seems content to partake in the abominable liquid. Farah watches, disbelieving, as she once more lifts the plastic cup to her lips and blows gently. Once, twice, and when she finally takes a sip, her movements are careful and precise. Then again, _everything_ Prim does is careful and precise, isn’t it?

Farah wrinkles her nose. “I still don’t see how you can stand to drink that stuff, babe.” 

A hum, muffled, and then Prim sets the cup back onto the glossy tabletop. Farah can see the faint impression of her lipstick curved along the rim, the crimson hue stark against the cream-colored container. Steam drifts up from the dark liquid, hazy tendrils curling in the air before vanishing, and she can’t quite stop the shudder that runs down her spine.

The smell is, naturally, worse.

“Yes, so you’ve said, many times before.” Her voice is cool, collected in that way it always manages to be— with a _hint_ of her Texan twang, rich and simmering just under the surface— and yet Prim smiles as she speaks. It reaches her eyes, turns the brown molten, and sitting there, dappled in the morning light streaming in through the large window, Farah is struck by just how beautiful she is.

And how lucky she is, to be here with her.

Even if she does insist on drinking such terrible things.

Farah laughs and sticks out her tongue. “Yeah, well, I’m going to keep on saying it! I mean, babe, you don’t even add anything to it!” At least other humans seem to add milk or sugar to the travesty, but not Prim, oh no— she drinks it black as night, actually _likes_ the bitterness.

“You know I don’t care much for sweets.” Prim pauses, tongue clicking. She raises a finger and taps one lovely manicured nail against her chin, lips spreading into a slight smile. “Well, aside from you, of course.”

Warmth seeps into Farah’s cheeks. Spills down her neck and she is dizzy, heart thudding in her chest, a pleasant tingle dancing over her skin. And now she’s grinning too, wide and open and _wow_ , it still amazes her how _happy_ she is— but Prim is good at that, at making her feel loved and safe and _wanted_ , valued, treasured.

Sometimes, late at night, when they’re tangled in bed and Prim is nestled in a deep sleep, chest rising and falling with soft breaths, Farah’s mind wanders. A nagging thought creeps in and no matter how often she shoos it away, beats it back with a broom, and tries to toss it out, it always comes back. Circles her mind as if it were some hungry animal, waiting for scraps of weakness, waiting to strike. 

How very different her life would be if she hadn’t met the witch now sitting across from her when she first stumbled out of the portal from the Echo World.

Lost and confused and hurting, it had been Prim who helped her. Prim who offered a hand to pull her out of her own despair and bring her back into the light, to show her that she could be happy again, that maybe she could be loved, too.

And sure, Farah talks a big game sometimes, and usually she means it— she knows she’s gorgeous and smart and funny, of course she is, anyone with eyes could see it— but it’s nice, to have someone look at her and see _her_ , all of her, the good and the bad and still say, _I choose you_. Prim never asks her to be someone else, to act or think differently, to change; just accepts her, loves her.

It’s enough to leave her breathless at times, and she doesn’t even _need_ to breathe!

Fingers lace through her own, slotting together perfectly, and the touch jolts her back to reality, sends her thoughts skidding to a halt. Farah looks up and _oh_ , but the way Prim is watching her, adoration and affection clear in that dark gaze, it threatens to drown her, to pull her under the waves and carry her out to sea.

She’ll let it, too, because she knows Prim won’t ever let her go alone.

“You okay, darlin’?” And it is the endearment, heavy in the accent she tries so hard to hide, that seals the deal for Farah. 

Butterflies swarm in her chest. Fluttering and frantic and she needs to move, to do something before she goes mad. Farah bolts upright in her seat and leans forward; closes the minimal gap between them in a blur of movement. Prim’s lips are soft against her own and yeah, sure, the taste of coffee lingers there— bitter and bland— but the flavor of Prim far outweighs it.

Sweet raspberry and tart citrus pop on her tongue like candy. Sweeps into her and the kiss is meant to be quick, a peck and little else, but now that she’s here, how could she stop? The hand in her own squeezes, nails tracing patterns along the back of her palm, and each one sends little crackles of electricity ricocheting up her arm, sends her into a tizzy and Farah hears herself moan— or maybe that’s Prim? Or maybe it’s both of them, hard to say— and when those lips part, it’s far too easy to slip inside, her eyes slipping closed.

Prim tilts closer and when her tongue slicks over Farah’s own, the vampire shivers, delight filling her to the brim. This sort of display, she knows, is a rarity; Prim has no shame over their relationship, of course, but she isn’t a woman prone to many public showings of affection. It’s just her way, and Farah respects it.

Doesn’t stop her from holding her hand whenever possible, oh no, but luckily Prim’s never said a word about _that_.

As Prim breaks away, slowly, reluctantly, Farah allows her eyes to open and doesn’t really bother hiding her pleased smile at the look on her girlfriend’s face. Cheeks stained rosy and lips swollen, glistening, eyes half-lidded and swallowed in black, pupils blown wide. 

“Sweet enough for you, babe?”

The other woman splutters, mouth falling open wide only to snap shut, and the rosy hue engulfing her face shifts, deepening to a rich scarlet. It spreads down her neck, plunges into her blouse, and even extends out, reaches the top of her ears. Farah can practically _feel_ the heat radiating from her and if anything, it only makes her grin widen. She loves _many_ things about her girlfriend, but leaving her all flustered is _definitely_ one of her favorite pastimes. 

“I— you didn’t answer my question,” Prim mutters, her free hand rising to awkwardly tuck a lock of ebony hair behind her ear. It lingers, fingers toying with the same lock, and she coughs, eyes darting down to the notebook spread out in front of her and really, it’s too damn endearing, how shy she gets sometimes.

“I thought the kiss was a pretty good answer.”

“ _Farah_.”

She laughs, bright and happy, and lifts their joined hands. Dips her head and places a kiss along Prim’s knuckles, doesn’t miss the way the other woman shivers, and then catches her gaze, holds it. “I’m great, babe, trust me.”

The effect is immediate. Any tension seems to leave Prim and now she smiles, cheeks beginning to return to their natural color. 

“Good, I’m glad, I mean,” she stops herself short, the words coming too quickly, and when she speaks again, it’s slower, more at ease. “I just, I know things have been crazy lately, what with the move here and now all that’s going on.”

Farah snorts. “You can say that again, I mean it’s one thing to find out this town is apparently a hotbed for the supernatural, but now we’re dealing with Fae royalty? And prophecies? Didn’t see that coming.”

Though, she figures if they do have to deal with Fae royalty, at least they got the nice ones— or well, Cordelia is nice, Mason is… _Mason_ — and really, Farah doesn’t put much stock in prophecies as it stands. People decide their own fate, in the end, and a bunch of pretty, confusing words can’t really change that.

Or, well, she hopes so.

“Still!” She leans back, coiled hair bouncing, and offers Prim a wink, one that has the other woman blushing anew. “It’s nice, being on a date again!”

“Is this a date?” 

“Well, if it’s not, I’m saying it’s one now!”

This earns her a laugh, quiet and rich. “Then I suppose that settles matters, doesn’t it? Date it is.”

A comfortable silence settles over them, content and warm, a blanket of calm. Prim dives back into her work, scribbling notes and ideas into her notebook in that small, neat way of hers. Attempts to work out a pattern of sorts to the latest attacks, determined to figure it out, to help. Farah watches her, a smile dancing on her lips, and feels her heart swell, love singing through her.

Maybe this wouldn’t be a date to others, but for Farah, any time spent with Prim is something to be celebrated and treasured. And she fully intends to do just that, no matter what.


	3. a study in pink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mason knows two things: that he loves his wife, and that he really hates the color pink.

It takes him all of a minute to decide: there is entirely too much fucking pink here.

The awful hue is _everywhere_ , assaulting him at every turn. Chains of paper, cut into shapes resembling hearts and flowers, lie draped across every surface imaginable. More of the ridiculous things are plastered onto walls, held by strips of tape, and placed haphazardly around the shop in what he assumes _must_ have been an intentional choice.

Atop every table and booth sits a thin, glass vase, and inside each one, a single rose. Thankfully, the flowers are fake; he doesn’t think he could stand having his eyes _and_ sense of smell attacked all at once.

Mason decides, with about as much conviction as he can muster up, that he _hates_ the color pink.

No, wait, scratch that: he just hates this fucking holiday, instead.

Of course, he’s used to holidays. While nowhere near as extravagant (or pompous) as those living in the Summer Court, the fae of the Spring Court can (and often do) find a reason to celebrate just about _anything_. He’s spent years among them, by this point — first as a prisoner, then as a (reluctant guest), and now as their king, of all things, — and so Mason is familiar with the revelry, but this is… different.

Everything about this so-called Valentine’s Day feels hollow; like it’s all just a sort of competition to see who can outdo the other in buying disgusting candies and flowers that will just die in a few days. And while he’s never been a huge fan of holidays in general, at least the Fae bring a sense of meaning into their celebrations.

Plus, they don’t stick hearts everywhere, which he counts as a plus.

A flash of red, stark against the pink, and his attention is caught, drawn like a moth to the flame. Mason turns and meets a gaze of gleaming gold, sunlit eyes watching him with interest, affection, and even through the annoyance festering inside of him, he can’t help but relax.

Then again, Cordelia’s always had that effect on him, hasn’t she?

“Mason? Are you okay?” 

Her voice is gentle, tender, and Mason thinks it ought to be impossible, but somehow even after all their centuries together, the sound of it still leaves him warm and floating and content. 

But, if he’s learned anything about Cordelia, it’s that she’s really good at accomplishing the impossible.

She reaches for him, always reaching for him. 

Delicate fingers brush against the rough fabric of his jacket, holding him loosely, and even through the material, Mason can feel her; she is shining and glowing, radiant like the sun, glittering like the stars, and it dazes him even now, to be reminded of the fact that he is hers, that she is his.

Mason chuckles. Takes hold of her hand, laces his fingers through her own, and gives her a little smirk, one that never fails to make her smile. “Yeah, sweetheart, I’m fine,” he murmurs, voice rumbling, a bit of thunder in the quiet of the cafe. “I can handle a few ugly decorations, after all.” And it’s not far from the truth, not really — the brightness of the colors and midday sun might be grating on his senses, but with her here, it’s tolerable.

Another thing she’s far too good at; taking the rough edges of his world, of _him_ , and smoothing them out, filing them down until they’re softer, easier to manage. 

“I think they’re rather lovely, myself!” When he snorts, disbelieving, Cordelia wrinkles her nose at him and then laughs. “Don’t be so dour, _cariad_ ,” she hums and rises up, her free hand braced atop his arm for support, and gives his cheek a little kiss, the touch featherlight, and yet it sends a ripple of pleasure jolting through him.

Mason twists his head, quick as lightning, and captures her lips with his own. Hears her make a sound, halfway between surprise and enjoyment, and gives her hand a light squeeze. Nips at her bottom lip, enough to excite but not near enough to hurt, and pulls back, smirk returning in full force.

“This dourness is what drew you in, sweetheart.”

“Actually, I’d say it was more your roguishly handsome features and that not so hidden kind heart of yours, dearest.”

He pretends to wince, silver eyes darting this way and that before returning to her. “Hey now, keep that under wraps, I’ve got a reputation to protect.”

“And what sort of reputation is that?”

“Terrifying creature of the night,” he quips, throwing in a wink for a bit of added flair.

Cordelia’s laugh is bright, filling the cafe in all its splendor, and Mason soaks it in, basks in the fact that he can elicit such a sound from her.

With her hand still held firmly in his own, she turns, pivots on her heel, and leads him further in, toward the counter nestled near the back. “Come now, we must get started! I promised both Bellamy and Haley that I would assist them in putting up the last few decorations, and I intend to honor my vow!”

He _almost_ makes a joke about promises and fae, but keeps his mouth shut; after all, it all rings a bit hollow now that he’s not only married to one but also technically one of their rulers.

Even now, the thought still boggles his mind. And he _knows_ it still pisses off a lot of those stuffy asses on the Council, which is really just a bonus, if he’s being honest.

Instead, he merely grunts. “I still don’t see what the big deal is,” Mason grumbles, lips tugging downward as her hand leaves his, Cordelia moving to busy herself with sorting through the assorted decorations sitting on the oaken island. Flexes his fingers, missing her warmth, and follows her over, hovering at her side. “This whole fucking holiday reeks of greed.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s entirely true,” she argues, beginning to separate the items into little piles, and even from this angle, he can see her smiling; can hear it in her tone. “It might be for some, of course, but I think ultimately many view this as a time to celebrate the bonds of love shared with others and,” here she pauses, turning to look up at him, “I think that’s a beautiful thing, celebrating love.”

She is bathed in a halo of light, sunbeams setting her hair alight — turning the locks molten, waves of flames — and collecting in her gaze, so very alive with affection he’s not sure he deserves. It’s almost blinding, looking at her like this, and yet, Mason can’t bring himself to tear his eyes away.

Never can, really, not when it’s her.

The need to touch her is overwhelming (always, always, he desires to touch her, to remind himself that she’s here, with him, _always_ ) and he’s never been a man to ignore his instinct. Mason curls an arm around her waist and tugs her closer until they are melded together, two forms made one, and presses her back against the counter, one leg slipping between her own. Cordelia raises her hands, slender fingers bunching into the front of his shirt, and something glitters in those eyes, something warm and joyous.

She slides her hands up, hooks them together at the base of his neck, and offers him a knowing smile. “You’re going to try and distract me from beginning my work, aren’t you?”

“Trust me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, all but closing the remaining gap between them. Allows his lips to ghost over her own, so close and yet still so far, and offers her a wolfish grin. “I’m going to do way more than _try_.”

His mouth swallows her laughter and as she melts into the kiss, fingers threading through his hair, meeting him with the same passionate hunger, Mason decides to amend his earlier conclusion.

Maybe this holiday isn’t so bad after all.

(He still hates all the pink, though.)

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and/or comments are appreciated! I'm also on [tumblr!](https://wayhavns.tumblr.com/)


End file.
